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coffee-maker on the floor behind his desk, where twice so far to Rebus’s knowledge he’d spilt it all across the new beige carpet. When Watson sat up again, he held in his meaty fist a cup of the devil’s own drink. The Chief Super’s coffee was a minor legend in Edinburgh.
    ‘Money lending with some protection on the side,’ Watson corrected. ‘But mostly money lending.’
    The same old sad story, in other words. People who wouldn’t stand a chance in any bank, and with nothing worth pawning, could still borrow money, no matter how bad a risk. The problem was, of course, that the interest ran into the hundreds per cent and arrears could soon mount, bringing more prohibitive interest. It was the most vicious circle of all, vicious because at the end of it all lay intimidation, beatings and worse.
    Suddenly, Rebus knew why the Chief Super had wanted this little chat. ‘It’s not Big Ger, is it?’ he asked.
    Watson nodded. ‘In a way,’ he said.
    Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘This’ll be the fourth time in as many years! He always gets off. You know that, I know that!’ Normally, he would have recited this on the move, but there was no floorspace worth the name, so he just stood there like a Sunday ranter at the foot of The Mound. ‘It’s a waste of time trying to pin him on money lending. I thought we’d been through all this a dozen times and decided it was useless going after him without trying another tack.’
    ‘I know, John, I know, but the Trading Standards people are worried. The problem seems bigger than they thought.’
    ‘Bloody Trading Standards.’
    ‘Now, John …’
    ‘But,’ Rebus paused, ‘with respect, sir, it’s a complete waste of time and manpower. There’ll be a surveillance, we’ll take a few photos, we’ll arrest a couple of the poor saps who act as runners, and nobody’ll testify. If the Procurator Fiscal wants Big Ger nailed, then they should give us the resources so we can mount a decent size of operation.’
    The problem, of course, was that nobody wanted to nail Morris Gerald Cafferty (known to all as Big Ger) as badly as John Rebus did. He wanted a full scale crucifixion. He wanted to be holding the spear, giving one last poke just to make sure the bastard really was dead. Cafferty was scum, but clever scum. There were always flunkies around to go to jail on his behalf. Because Rebus had failed so often to put the man away, he would rather not think of him at all. Now the Farmer was telling him that there was to be an ‘operation’. That would mean long days and nights of surveillance, a lot of paperwork, and the arrests of a few pimply apprentice hardmen at the end of it all.
    ‘John,’ said Watson, summoning his powers of character analysis, ‘I know how you feel. But let’s give it one more shot, eh?’
    ‘I know the kind of shot I’d take at Cafferty given half a chance.’ Rebus turned his fist into a gun and mimed the recoil.
    Watson smiled. ‘Then it’s lucky we won’t be issuing firearms, isn’t it?’
    After a moment, Rebus smiled too. He sat down again. ‘Go on then, sir,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’
    At eleven o’clock that evening, Rebus was watching TV in the flat. As usual, there was no one else about. They were either still studying in the University library, or else down at the pub. Since Michael wasn’t around either, the pub seemed an odds-on bet. He knew the students were wary, expecting him to kick at least one of them out so he could claim a bedroom. They moved around the flat like eviction notices.
    He’d phoned Patience three times, getting the answering machine on each occasion and telling it that he knew she was there and why didn’t she pick up the phone?
    As a result, the phone was on the floor beside the sofa, and when it rang he dangled an arm, picked up the receiver, and held it to his ear.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘John?’
    Rebus sat up fast. ‘Patience, thank Christ you –’
    ‘Listen, this is important.’
    ‘I know